


A Doctor and an Officer in Her Majesty's Secret Service

by iriswallpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John is MI6, John is assigned to gather intel on Mycroft, M/M, Mike Stamford is MI6, Spy!Mike!Stamford, more tags will be added as story progresses, spy!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 04:29:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5234150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike Stamford is actually a secret agent outranking even Mycroft, whose cover is mild mannered doctor/med school prof. After being injured in the war, John is recruited to go undercover working for Mike, gathering intel on Mycroft via his younger brother. Mike suspects something is not right with Mycroft but hasn’t been able to put his finger on it. John plays his part so perfectly, he falls in love with Mycroft’s brother, his flatmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Doctor and an Officer in Her Majesty's Secret Service

Captain John Watson woke with a start in an unfamiliar bed. The beeps and swishing noises told him everything he needed to know: hospital. A cannula fed oxygen directly to his nasal passages while an IV fed pain killers directly into his vein. The head of the bed was slightly elevated. John tried to sit up to assess his surroundings. With a groan, he collapsed back onto the narrow, hard bed. His left shoulder was on fire, consumed with white-hot pain.

After panting through the pain for a few moments, John cautiously raised his right hand to his left shoulder. He found cotton wadding held in place with gauze and surgical tape. A lot of wadding held by a lot of tape and gauze. Whatever it was that took him down, it did considerable damage based on the extensive bandaging. 

John tried to think back and reason out what had happened. He’d been on patrol with his squadron, an ordinary patrol on an ordinary day. Being a doctor, John was never asked to take point and when he volunteered to be the point man, his requests were politely declined. The Royal Army had invested quite a lot of money into Captain Watson, and his CO made no secret of the fact that the rest of the men were to protect the Crown’s investment. So John had been near the rear of the squadron, as usual, when sniper shots pinged off the bombed-out building behind him. 

All hell broke loose: shooting from both sides, shouts, explosions from IEDs buried along the roadside. It all coalesced into a single point for John when he remembered the pain searing through his shoulder. He’d been engaged in a firefight, exchanging shots with an enemy operative, when the bullet ripped through his shoulder. Most likely a .45 shot from a Canadian C7. The Taliban were nearly as well supplied with C7s as the Afghan National Army thanks to sympathizers that had infiltrated the Afghani troops who pilfered guns, ammo, medicines and supplies and passed them along to Taliban camps. John knew from all the wounds he’d cleaned out and stitched that a .45 left an entry wound the size of a 5p piece, but an exit wound the size of a £2 piece. He reckoned it had been a clean shot, high on his shoulder, from the explorations of his fingertips through the bandages.

And here he was, barely able to lift his head, his dominant hand inured – the one he used to stitch up wounded soldiers. How would he be able to perform surgery if he could barely feel his left hand? Bitter tears welled up in his eyes, overflowed and scorched paths to his temples. He heard a loud beep as his heaving breaths set off monitors.

A nurse, dressed in dove gray scrubs and a surgical mask over her face, appeared immediately. Her blue eyes smiled over the mask. “Captain Watson! Nice to see you awake. I’m Kate, I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Care to sit up?”

John scrubbed his eyes with the back of his right hand and nodded. Nurse Kate pressed a button on the bed’s side rails and John’s head and torso slowly rose to a 45 degree angle to the bed. “There, that’s better. Care for some water?”

Realizing he was parched, but knowing the IV had kept him hydrated, John nodded. Kate held the straw in a plastic tumbler of ice water to his mouth and John closed his lips gratefully around it. He knew to take sips, that too much water too fast could cause vomiting on an empty stomach already queasy from narcotic painkillers. John released the straw from his lips and shut his eyes. He felt the tale tell signs of fever. He was nude under a light sheet but sweating profusely in addition to feeling light headed. He wanted to ask Kate about his injury, surgery, and progress, but felt too weak to form a single word.

“Captain Watson, you still with me?” Kate’s bright tone brought him out of his ruminations. He opened his eyes to find three men standing behind Kate, yellow disposable surgical gowns covering their dark suits. 

“Captain Watson, these gentlemen would like to speak to you. Are you up to it?” Kate watched him intently until he nodded. At that sign, she turned, nodded toward the other visitors and left, shutting the door behind her.

The man who appeared to be in charge pulled up a plastic chair and sat facing John. The lower half of his face was covered in a surgical mask; he was bald, wore black-rimmed glasses in the style of Buddy Holly, and his pale blue eyes displayed intelligence. When he spoke, his voice was low and intense. “Captain Watson, I’m Agent Brown. These are Agents Smith and Thomas.” He didn’t look at the other agents, still standing at the head of John’s bead, when he said their name. “I’m here to ask you several very important questions. You’ve realized that your surgical career was effectively ended by your injury…”

“Wait just a minute!” John cut him off, voice croaking after such a long period of disuse. “I haven’t even spoken to my surgeon. I don’t even know the extent of my injuries, or my prognosis. And you barge in here telling me my career is over?”

Agent Brown’s eyes cut toward Agent Smith, who turned and left the room. He resumed in a much more cordial tone, “I am sorry, Captain Watson. Of course, you’ve had a serious injury and now, a shock. Perhaps I didn’t start off well. Your surgeon will be here momentarily. I can wait.” He sat back in the chair, appearing relaxed, and regarded John with a nonchalant air. The other agent stood and waited, looking at the floor.

After only a few even beeps of John’s cardiac monitor, a tall man in spotless green scrubs, hair covered in a surgical cap and face swathed in a mask entered the room. He whipped the stethoscope from his neck as he spoke. “Captain Watson, John. I’m Doctor Johansen. Please, call me Tim. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up. You’ve given us quite a scare these past few days.” He drew the sheet away from John’s chest and listened, re-positioning the stethoscope every few heart beats. “Good breath sounds and your heart is strong. You had a touch of pneumonia in your left lung, and infection in the wound. We’ve kept you sedated while we fought it. Three days, you’ve been out. The surgery went well, entrance and exit sites were clean, but we’ve been most concerned about your lungs. Now, can you raise your arm?”

John tried, really tried, to raise his left hand normally. Instead it barely lifted six inches off the mattress, shaking uncontrollably. The tape pinched his skin as he moved and he breathed heavily. Doctor Johansen took his wrist, feeling his pulse, manipulating the hand and arm into several positions to check for nerve damage. When he was done with his examination he glanced sharply at the still-seated Agent Brown.

Brown stood and the doctor took his place in the chair. He still held John’s left hand loosely in both of his. “Captain Watson, I’m afraid I have some unwelcome news. The nerve damage is quite extensive. We’ll do all we can with rehabilitation and physical therapy, of course. But it’s unlikely you’ll regain full use of your left hand. Nerve damage affects fine motor skills the most.” He paused and looked gravely into John’s eyes. “You’re a surgeon, John. I believe you know what I’m saying.”

John nodded stoically. “You’re saying my days in the operating room are over.”

Doctor Johansen nodded in reply. “I’m afraid so, John. We did all we could, you had the absolute best of care, but…” He looked over his shoulder at the Agents standing behind him. “John, these men are here to offer you an alternative way you can serve the Royal Army. Listen to them, consider what they have to say carefully. Your future as a surgeon is over, but there are alternatives that might be even better for you.” He stood, squeezed John’s hand and left the room.

John glanced up at the agents. He was in no mood to hear anything they had to say. “What do you want?” he asked bitterly.

Agent Brown resumed his seat. He paused to give John time to regain his composure before he spoke. “Captain Watson, the personality profile in your service record is of interest to us. Whenever an officer is injured, we always review his record, looking for certain traits that are commonly found in officers. And yours, Captain Watson, is of great interest to us. Do you know the results of the psychological tests you took when you entered service?”

John shook his head. “That information isn't shared with soldiers. Surely you know that.”

Brown smiled slightly. “Yes, that’s true. But it’s often shared with officers to give them insight into their strengths, to help them lead.”

John shook his head again. “I’m a medical officer. That’s different from a commanding officer. I’m attached to an infantry squadron, not in the usual chain of command.”

The agent nodded. “Alright then, Captain Watson. Let me tell you what attracted our attention. We’re looking for soldiers, officers with a certain attraction to danger. People who won’t crack under pressure. Ones who can keep secrets, tell lies. Who observe details and are able to communicate them effectively. We also look for highest scores in marksmanship. People who know how to handle a gun and won't hesitate to use it. And you, Captain Watson, have just the profile we need.”

John looked Brown up and down coldly. “You’re military intelligence, aren’t you?” 

Agent Brown nodded again. “And we’d like you to join us.”

John closed his eyes and let the sights and sounds of the room wash over him. He’d been shot, had been quite ill, still had residual infection in his system, had just been told he’d never operate again – and now Military Intelligence was asking for him to throw his hat into their ring. It was extraordinary. The entire situation felt surreal – probably helped by the morphine pump hooked to the IV in his right wrist.

His eyes opened. John swallowed. He glanced from Agent Brown to the other two men standing behind him. 

“I’m in.”


End file.
